


Earth to Mother Ship

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Porn, Teen Muse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt wants to know. Things get complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His hands glide over my skin, and goosebumps raise to meet them. "Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing the back of my neck, knowing I can't deny him when he is like this, "how does it feel?" I whimper at the overload of sensation, but that is not the response he wants, and sharp pain breaks through the pleasure as he bites my shoulder in warning, "Tell me!"

I draw in a breath and try to put words to the sensations. "Warm. Tingly. Nice." "Nice? NICE???" he scoffs, pulling away from me. I turn my head to look at him, and he glares back at me, already gnawing at his thumbnail—a sure sign of His Nibs' displeasure. "Nice?" he repeats, flopping onto his back, "is that all you have?"  
  
I scramble to face him, pulling gently at his hand to save his thumb from a mauling, "Don't be like that," I say, always the peacemaker, "you know I'm not good with words, that's your thing." He rolls his eyes at me with a long-suffering sigh, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips—crisis averted.

Unable to let go of an issue, though, he starts again, "Ok, define 'nice'." With an inner sigh, I try to comply—I always do, "Nice as in goosebumps and a tingle down my spine." That gets me a frown, "Doesn't sound very nice to me, sounds like you have the 'flu." I sigh to myself—again—but say nothing; the calculating look in his eyes tells me there's more to come. And sure enough, he pushes up on his elbows and asks in his 'solemn' voice, eyes sparkling with interest, "Were you hard?"

Oh, shit, here we go!

I cross my arms, trying to pull together the ends of the shirt he unbuttoned so deftly a few minutes ago, and shoot back, "Were you?" I should know better, really. The glare is back, "I asked you first."

As I mutter a shamefaced "yes" into my collar, I know with deadly certainty what is going to happen next. It's like watching a train wreck, really. With a gleeful "Show me!" he gets all the way up, his hands flying to my belt. Yup. That's me, mind reader extraordinaire.

I know better than trying to stop him, he'll make me pay for it if I do. When this kind of mood takes him, it's easier all round to just give in. So here I am, sitting meekly while my best friend and fellow troublemaker unzips my jeans. And the thing is, instead of losing the half boner and dying of embarrassment, my boxers are tenting quite nicely, ta very much.

I half expect him to just yank my boxers down and conduct a full inspection but, wonder of wonders, it appears that the guy does have some limits—he looks up at me from under his fringe, lower lip snagged on his crooked tooth, a question in his eyes.

In for a penny...

I shrug, and that is all the permission he needs before the yanking down of boxers happens, leaving me hanging—pardon me, standing—in the breeze.

"Duuuuude!"

He drags the word out, ending with a whistle between his teeth. Hey, how about that? I've impressed him. I should be cheering inside—that's not something that happens very often—but there's something in his eyes that kills the cheering right in its tracks.

I squirm in a mixture of embarrassment and excitement as, eyes fixed on my now rock hard cock, he leans closer—yup, there's the full inspection too—his nose almost touching the tip as he turns his head this way and that to get a good look.

I whimper again when he looks up at me, eyes almost black, lips parted and shiny. I know that look. He wears it often as we sit under the pier, stoned out of our brains, plotting. It usually means trouble. More often than not, trouble for me. And this, right here, is trouble with a capital T.

I can see his hands twitching, and my heart starts pumping faster. He still hasn't looked away. "May I?" he says, his voice as unsteady as my breath.

Well, colour me stunned!

This is a day for miracles. Another first! He's never asked me for permission to do anything with—or to—me in all the years I've known him. And wouldn't you just know it, the weird little freak uses correct grammar with it.

His hand on my thigh stops my mental ramblings, "You with us, mate?" I blink at him, and he grins at me, his words running into each other in excitement as he goes on, "Heyyou'reback!GoodSoyes?" One track mind, this one. I have no spit left in my mouth, so I just nod. My eyes follow his hand as it leaves my thigh and slowly, deliberately, closes around my cock.

Oh, god!!!

My eyes snap shut and my hips buck up into his hand. With a groan, I clench every single muscle in my body to stop myself from coming right here and now. I can feel his eyes on me, even with mine closed, watching my reactions, cataloging what he learns about me for future use. That is not helping my control one bit.

With a shuddering sigh I open my eyes, but they immediately snap shut again: not one to do things by halves, he brings his other hand to fondle my balls as he starts pumping me slowly.

Oh. My. Fucking. God!!!!

The groan that escapes me is so loud that he jumps back, startled, his hands clenching painfully on my tackle, and the groan turns into something that sounds like a bullcalf in rut.

Pandemonium ensues.

He shouts, "Oh, god, did I hurt you?" and tries to let go of me, but I drop like a ton of bricks and curl into a tight ball in reflex, holding my poor bits tightly, so his hands are trapped as I kick at him, shouting in a strangled voice, "Let go of me, you fucker!!! Let go!!!" while he whines right in my ear, "I'm—OW—try—OW—trying—OW—You let—OW—go—OW—first!!!"

To his credit he doesn't kick back; will the wonders of this fucking day never cease? I really must have scared the shit out of him. Eventually what he's saying works its way through the fog of pain, and I uncurl ever so slowly and carefully, glaring at him. The moment he is able to, he takes his hands away and kneels by my side, hands fluttering above me in concern, "Oh, god, are you ok? Did I really hurt you? Say something."

I stop glaring at him once I realise that he really is concerned and not taking the piss, and he flops down next to me, his nose almost touching mine—he really has no concept of personal space—and his eyes wide with worry.

"I'm sorry." he says, and I can hear the sound of ice crackling as hell freezes over. The sound of those words is so inconceivable coming out of his mouth that I gape at him like the dork I am. And he means it, too, I can see it in his eyes.

Well, I'll be!

Maybe I'm dealing with a changeling? Or dreaming. That's it, I say to myself with a mental slap to the forehead, it's gotta be a dream. Or not, because he's now frowning at me, although I don't have the faintest clue why. Maybe I'm concussed? No—that's the other brain...

My stream of consciousness—let's be kind and call it that—comes to a grinding halt as lips brush mine. I freeze. Every single muscle locked in place freeze. Like, I don't think I'm even breathing freeze. Eyes bugging half out of my head, I look at him, and all I see is blue.

With a gentleness that takes my breath away—I guess I was breathing, after all—he brushes my way too long fringe from my face and, tilting my head a little so our respective huge conkers aren't in the way, he kisses me softly again, and I melt inside.

I know what you're thinking. The guy just wanked me not five minutes ago—okay, okay, attempted to wank me not five minutes ago. Sheesh!—so what is a little kiss between friends, right? What's the big deal?

Sure, there's been a peck or three; he is, after all, the most touchy feely person I know—and that includes every single girl in our acquaintance. There was even that snogging episode, but we were both high as kites, and if I say 'slobber' I'm sure you'll get the picture.

And I figured the w... attempted wanking thing was just one of his usual madcap experiments, where he uses me as a lab rat—he has this driving need to know, you see—meaning nothing more to him than the time he slipped X in my drink—to be fair, he took it too—to find out how out of control it would get us. Which, now I think about it, led to the slobber thing.

Anyway.

This is different. And not different in the 'my business is still hanging loose' way—which, by the way, I should really be worried about, given the sitch, but, curiously, I am not. No. I mean, this is different. He's kissing me like he means it, not in his usual careless way, or to get a raise out of me—although...

He's licking at my lower lip now, and oh, god, I think I'm going to die. This has to be a dream. I pull away a little, and he lets go of my lips, resting his forehead on mine. The frown is back when he looks at me, but his eyes are still soft. "Is this ok?" he asks, cupping my face with his hand and brushing his thumb over my cheekbone.

That does it. The crush that I've had on him for the last few weeks—yes, I'm crushing on my best friend. Deal!—suddenly explodes inside me and, before I know what I'm doing, my hands are fisting in hair as long and soft as a girl's, and I'm kissing him with a ferocity I didn't know I had in me. And he's kissing me back, both his hands now framing my face. Damn, but he is a good kisser.

My brain can't process this. We are kissing like... well, like the teenagers we are. And suddenly I'm painfully aware that I am, for all intents and purposes, naked, and rubbing myself against him, with predictable results. For the second time in less than ten minutes I'm on the brink of spilling all over him. And, if you must know, I'm starting to chafe a little; jeans are not the softest of fabrics, let me tell you.

So I stop and, as I lie here panting into his mouth, I swear to god I can feel my balls going a nice shade of blue. Noticing the pause, his hands leave my face and he pulls me closer, pressing his hand on the small of my back. "Don't stop," he says against my lips, "please."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Now I know for dead certain that his worst fear has come to pass and he's been taken over by aliens. Other than to his gran and assorted adults, which he really can't get away without, when has he ever said 'please' in his life? I mean, really, he has the social skills and world outlook of a two year old: "Oh, shiny. Pretty. Mine!!" I have often heard him mutter "please is for pussies." after unavoidable social convention forces him to utter the word.

Well, glory be and hallelujah! The 'please' thing has startled me enough that the inside of my cheek thanks it. I was biting it bloody, trying to stop myself from coming.

Ok. Now that I can think a bit, I decide to take the bull by the horns and risk life and limb questioning this... dunno... whatever this is. With a reluctant sigh, I pull my lips away from his, pushing gently against his chest to give me some breathing space, and his face falls. Yeah, you guessed, the kid doesn't take rejection well; unless he's the one doing the rejecting, that is.

God, he's high maintenance!

I draw a breath and cup his face in my hands, leaning in to kiss him briefly, then lean back so I can see his eyes. "I just need a minute, yeah?" He nods uncertainly, so I go on, "What is going on?"

I really should know better than to ask something like that, it pushes so many of his buttons. The response is predictably twatty, "Well, from where I'm sitting, it looked like you were about to get your rocks off."

I want to strangle the little shit, and I swear to god no jury in the world would convict me, but instead I close my eyes and count to ten and, when I'm a bit calmer, I say, "I'm not kidding, man. Is this one of your mind games? Trying to see how far you can push me? Will you be taking notes in that bloody notebook you carry around with you everywhere? Because if it is, fuck you, I'm not playing."

Yeah, calm, zen—that's me.

He just looks at me, so I let go of him, roll on my back and start tucking myself in, glaring at him all the while, but he moves to stop me. I'm about to slap his hands away and tell him to leave me the fuck alone when he finally speaks.

"It's not a game." I'm still trying to process that when the universe enters an alternative dimension as he goes on, "I'm sorry I took the piss." Cue Doctor Who theme—But wait, there's more, "I've never been more serious about anything. Ever."

Say what?

I think I could be forgiven for the 'what the fuck' moment I experience. Did he just apologise to me? Again!

Hang on...

Way to focus on the essentials, bro. He just gave you the moon on a fucking plate and you're carrying on about apologies?

Seconds tick by as we stare at one another like idiots, his hands still on mine, my hands still trying to zip up my jeans. Me, in shock; him, knowing the guy, cringing and berating himself for his display of sappiness, and getting worse every moment that passes.

I react first. I think it is fear that makes me push myself up, straddle him, pin his hands above his head, and lean over until we are nose to nose. "So help me, you'd better mean that." I growl, "Do not play me on this or, I swear to god, I'll end you. We clear?" Eyes soft and liquid, he nods, and this time I do believe him.

I let go of his wrists and sit back on his thighs to look down at him. I still can't believe this is happening. I want to pinch myself, really. This is happening. This is really happening...

"OI!! Earth to mother ship!!! Do I have to shag myself over here?"

Yep. Here we go. I knew it wouldn't last. We've returned to normal transmission schedule. Why couldn't I just fall for a nice quiet girl?

 


	2. Chapter 2

I close my mouth with an audible snap, and I die inside at the martyred, resigned look that crosses his face at my idiotic comment, wiping out out his blissful smile. I really need a filter between my brain and my mouth; I just vomit whatever crosses my mind at that particular moment, and it usually ends up getting me into trouble—or unintentionally hurting someone. Usually him.

I have to fix this. He's my best friend. And I think... No, don't lie to yourself. I know I am in love with him. Yeah, I know, I'm not doing a particularly good job of it at the moment. I am trying, though. I want this.  
  
He has always forgiven me when my idiotic schemes backfire and land us in trouble. He's never complained about the hell I put him through with my insane curiosity, agreeing to be my guinea pig even when he knows that it's likely to go badly for him two times out of three. He always comes back, no matter how much I hurt him or how hard I push him away when my short fuse gets the better of me.

Not this time, though. I know that if I mess this up I'll lose him. Completely. He'll turn around and leave, and will never even look at me again. And I guess that's the problem. I'm scared spitless that I'm going to fuck this up. Which of course means that I'll probably end up fucking it up. Royally.

I have to fix this.

He hasn't left yet, though. The moment those words left my mouth I expected him to get up and leave and never speak to me again. He hasn't left. And he's looking down at me with a soft, rueful smile on his face, shaking his head a little. I take comfort from that. There is hope.

I smile uncertainly up at him and he smiles wider. Yes. There's hope, and I need to man up. So I scramble to sit up—well, whaddaya know, all them filthy crunches we have to do in PE class do have their uses—and before he has time to react, we are chest to chest, and my arms are around him.

"I am sorry," I say, forcing myself to look into his eyes, so he knows I mean it, "please, don't go." For a moment he looks at me as though he doesn't know me at all, but then he shakes his head again, "It's ok, love, I didn't think it would last." he says with a chuckle, tucking my head under his chin with one hand, the other rubbing soothing circles on my back. I burrow my face in his chest, cheek to tanned skin, breathing him in, and my fear disappears.

I don't do still very well, though, and, just as my hands start the tiniest of twitches, he loosens his hold on me—god, he knows me better than I do—and lifts my chin up with two fingers. "Shall we start again?” he asks with a bit of smirk in his smile—and who can blame him. I close my eyes in relief and say, fervently "Oh, god, can we? Pleas..." Before I can finish, he is kissing me. Softly at first, his lips gentle on mine, but soon they become harder, more demanding.

It's the problem with kissing a bloke; you see, blokes learn to kiss girls, and girls kind of expect the bloke to take charge of the kissing. So when you kiss a bloke, there is this thing where you're both wanting to take charge, because that's what blokes do, and the kiss becomes more of a battle than a kiss. I reckon that for a kiss to be good there has to be a kisser and a kissee, and I want this to be a good kiss, so I let myself become the kissee.

I soften in his arms and let him take control, opening up for him, letting his tongue explore my mouth. His eyes widen in surprise and he freezes for a moment—I'm not known for my meekness, really—but then 'horse', 'gift' and 'mouth' must have crossed his mind, because he dives right in, and he's kissing me more thoroughly than I've ever been kissed before, and I'm making these mewling sounds, and my hands are roaming under his shirt, and my tee is pushed up all the way to my armpits, and we're both sorta bucking into one another and...

Yeah... Let's just say that we both experience a normal physiological reaction, and leave it at that.

So here we are, slumped on the bed in a tangle of skinny legs, breathing hard, having ruined two perfectly good pairs of boxer shorts—I have a feeling that the walk home is going to be a bitch—and I'm squeezing the two brain cells I have left for something to say that isn't going to make me sound like the sappy mess I am inside. Nope. Nothing.

His hand slips into mine, and squeezes gently before he pulls me to face him. I blush to the roots of my hair at the way he looks at me, and try to hide my eyes from him, but he won't let me. He holds my face in his hands and commands softly, "Look at me."

There is something in his voice that makes it impossible for me for me to deny him, so I force my eyes to look into his. And when I do, my whole world turns upside down. There is so much warmth in them, and tenderness, and... yes, love; there is love looking out of his eyes. For me.

He loves me. And I'm going to fuck it up somehow. And hurt him. I want to cry in frustration at my stupid fucked up brain, presenting me with scenario after awful scenario of all the ways I will hurt him.

My first instinct is to run, but his voice stops me. "Are you ok?" He asks, brushing lose strands of my hair behind my ear, "Is this ok?" He must have seen the panic in my eyes. I nod weakly; not very convincingly, I'm afraid, because he goes on, "Talk to me."

I tell myself sternly that I don't do sappy, but I'm not known for listening either. I become the sappiest sap that ever sapped. I look at him with eyes brimming with tears, saying "I love you, and I'm scared out of my brain. I don't want to fuck this up."

Ok, maybe there is something to this sappy thing, because the smile he gives me could power a whole city block for a few weeks. "You bloody idiot." he says, exasperation warring with the affection in his voice, "Come here." I thought I'd been kissed thoroughly before. Man, was I wrong! He kisses me as though he wants to own my soul, and I offer it up to him, willingly.

I don't want him to stop, but the effects of the kissing clash horribly with the cooling sticky mess in my pants, and I squirm in disgust. "Erm..." I mumble into his mouth. He pulls back a bit, a puzzled look on his face. Right. How do I put this delicately? "My dick is stuck to my underpants. And I'm getting hard, and it's pulling like a motherfucker."

He laughs so hard that I think I'm going to have to call 999 to get the paramedics in to treat him for a ruptured gut. I can just picture the conversation. "I need an ambulance, I think my friend has a ruptured gut." "And how did this happened, sir?" "Well, we were snogging, and I was getting hard as all fuck, and since I had come in my pants a while ago, my dick was getting a nice peeling treatment. Which I'm sure will make it much softer to the touch, but at the time it hurt like all get out. So I told him to stop snogging me, and he asked why, and I told him, and the callous bastard instead of commiserating laughed so hard he ripped a gut. Serve him right."

At this point I'm starting to huff a bit. I'm pretty sure this is not 'laughing with me' kind of laughing. And the situation in my pants is not getting any better.

Eventually, he stops thrashing about, lies on his back and pulls me to him. "God, I love you." he says, still giggling weakly. Just like that my huff disappears, and I snuggle up to him laying my head on his chest with a contented sigh.

After a few moments, he gives me a brief squeeze and says, "Right, I'm falling asleep. Do you want to stay over? The 'rents are away for the weekend." Do I what!!! I've slept in his bed hundreds of times, but this time I won't be sleeping in his bed, I will be sleeping with him.

My head swims with the implications. I nod eagerly, so he lets go of me and gets up to rummage in his dresser. He comes back and throws me a pair of boxers and a tee, saying, "You can have first shower."

For once, I don't grouse at him making me have a shower before getting in his bed. I roll out of bed and, with a splaylegged duckwalk to spare my balls from getting the bald and shiny treatment, make my way to the bathroom, followed by his sniggers.

I pause at the door and look at him over my shoulder. "Shower with me?" I say casually, stopping him mid-snigger. Without another word, I go in and close the door behind me, my face cracking into a grin.

"Three... two..."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The evil runty sod!! Trust him to drop a bomb like that on me and piss off. I should just ignore him and let him have his shower all by his bloody self. Serve him right, it would. I fume quietly to myself, but it is a halfhearted fuming, more out of habit than anything else. I know, and he knows, that I am going to follow him in, just as I always have since we first met.

Oh, to hell with it.  
  
I get off the bed, find myself some clean sleeping clothes and strip, chucking the whole sticky mess in my laundry hamper on my way to the bathroom door. I hesitate with my hand on the door handle, looking down at myself. I'm rock hard again. Just the thought of him standing naked under the water is enough to make me moan. And I'm actually going to be in there with him, skin to skin.

Great, now I'm hyperventilating.

Slow breaths. Come on, man, you can do it. And if you come on the spot, well... you are in the right place to deal with it, aren't you?

With a mental shake, I turn the handle and walk into a wall of fog. Damn the runt, he has this thing about extractor fans. I walk blindly the four steps to the shower stall and fumble for the door. He opens it for me, his hand shooting out to grip mine and pull me inside, "About time!"

No time to process.

His wet, warm body is on mine, and my back is against the cold tiles as he is kissing me, hot water washing over both of us and steam swirling all around us.

God, I can't breathe, I want him so much.

Without thinking, I grab him under the arms and pull him up. Smoothly, as though we had rehearsed the move—which, in a way, we have, I can't even count the times he has jumped on me just like that, clinging like a monkey—his arms and legs wrap around me, and I move my hands to his arse to support his weight. As soon as I have him securely held, he kisses my nose and, with a wild grin on his face, starts to grind against me.

He snaps his head back with a deep moan as our cocks slide against one another wetly, and I nearly drop him, the sensation so intense that my knees turn to rubber. "Oh, god." I say, trying to hold both of us up. He stops moving, holding onto me for dear life, "You ok?" I nod frantically, making him giggle into the crook of my neck.

I know I'm not going to last long here, but I don't really care, "Don't stop." I croak out. Eyes fluttering closed, he nods, and starts a slow grind that has my knees shaking and every fibre in my body screaming for release in no time at all.

I desperately need his mouth, but he's too busy sucking on my collarbone to notice. Caution to the wind, I hold him up one handed, grabbing his hair to pull him away. He grunts his displeasure, but I'm insistent, and he finally lets go—man, I'd better wear a high necked jumper to school on Monday, I'm going to have the hickie to end all hickies. He looks at me accusingly for spoiling his fun, but before he stops moving and lets me have a piece of his mind, I say, "Kiss me?"

Blushing furiously, not quite believing what I'm about to say to him next, I go on, "I want to come while you kiss me." He stops dead then, and gives me that owlish look he gets when he's startled. I guess this is my night for surprising him. Something feral sparks in his eyes for a moment, and then he is attacking my mouth with his, and moving against me with ruthless intent.

It doesn't take long, not the way he's driving us. He goes first, clenching around me until I have no breath left, his strangled cry against my lips and his wet warmth on my skin enough to set me off. I cry his name as I come, and then my legs finally give way and I let my back slide slowly down to the floor until I'm sitting down on the tiles with him curled up on my lap like a kitten, his arms around my neck and his face buried in the crook of my shoulder.

Once I'm breathing again, I wipe wet hair out of my eyes so I can see him properly—not that I can see much beyond my nose in this steam soup he's created. With his pale scrawny body and that sharp profile of his, with his long hair plastered all over him, and making little snuffling sounds into my neck, he looks just like a wet baby rodent. A cute wet baby rodent.

As I look at him, my heart does a weird thing. It feels like it's growing bigger and bigger and bigger, and I'm getting short of breath, and just as I'm thinking, 'way to go out with a bang, man, well done', it kinda explodes, and I'm all hot and cold and tingly and glowy inside.

Ok. Did my heart just come?

Suddenly, I have this fierce need to protect him, which is weird as all fuck, because I know full well that he's quite capable of doing for himself, thank you very much. In fact, I should be the one in need of protection—from him. I guess logic doesn't come into this one. I just want to wrap him in my arms and hold him and end any bugger who even looks at him crossways.

I'd better keep mum about it, though, or he'll give me a right bollocking. He's a bit touchy about people being protective of him because of his size, and... I give myself a shake to stop the flow of mental drivel. I'm missing what might be my only opportunity to look at him like this. He hates being stared at. Yes, I know, the kid has issues. But that's another story.

God, he is beautiful.

That thought stops me in my tracks. One, blokes do not go thinking about other blokes as 'beautiful'. And two, I guess if you look at him from a purely aesthetic point of view...

Oh, shut it with your drivel! Just acknowledge that you are crazy in love with the guy and move on. Crush my bony arse!! Head over heels, mate, head over heels.

Reluctantly I concede the point to my annoying inner voice. I am crazy in love with him, god help me. As I look at him all soft and warm and kittenish in my arms, I know that I will love him with my last breath. And for a wonder, he loves me too.

I also know that it's not going to be an easy road. He doesn't do soft and warm and kittenish very often, more's the pity. I know that I'm going to have to take moments like this and treasure them, because he's very much like a cat in his affection: on his terms or not at all.

I know what you're thinking. We're just kids. And you may have a point there. But right here, right now, I know for dead certain that this is the beginning of us. It is an 'us' that might be the end of me, but I'm willing to take the risk, because he makes my life brighter, right from the very moment he walked into it with his twatty grin and his front.

I'm shaken out of my musings by the cooling water. Bugger, we've used up all the hot water, better get cleaned up a bit before it gets to freezing. I sigh, knowing that when he's like this it's like handling a ragdoll cat, and I am not exactly at my best right now.

This is going to be interesting.

Tentatively, I bring my hand up to his face, and he leans into it with a hum. My eyes close in delight. I love it when he does that, it is the upside of his catlike nature. But we need to get moving, his skin is pebbling with the cold. "Hey, come on," I say softly, "we need to move, the water is getting cold, and you're covered in goosebumps." His response is predictable, "Nooooo." he mumbles, burrowing closer.

Right, I know how this is going to have to play—nine times out of ten our stoner forays end up with him wrapped all over me and unable, or unwilling, to move. I take a deep breath and, bracing my back against the wall, I push up, abs straining and knees wobbling with the effort of lifting both of us. Once I'm up, I lean back against the tiles for a bit to catch my breath, and walk us into the fast cooling water.

He whimpers in protest when I stand him up so I can wash the worst of the mess off, and drapes over me like a wet cloth. With a mental sigh, I juggle soap and his limp, drooping, seemingly boneless body, and manage an acceptable level of clean without dropping either.

Yay me!

I've become a pro at this over the years, washing the puke off him and getting him to sober up before I send him home to his gran. But this time I'm painfully aware of the texture of his skin under my soapy hands, of the slip and slide of our bodies as I try to hold him upright. This time it's not 'let's get this over with as quickly as humanly possible', this time his body is mine to touch.

The only thing that stops me from lingering is the cold creeping into my limbs, and I promise myself that the next time—yes, the next time; my head spins at the realisation that there will be a next time—we will take time to explore one another.

By the time I'm done, the water is freezing and we are both shivering, so I close the tap and rush us out, getting two big towels from the warming rack. Throwing one of them over my shoulders to avoid turning into a block of ice, I deal with him first, because his fingernails are starting to turn blue.

I swaddle him in the towel and, holding him against me, rub him vigorously to try and get his circulation going. Not as easy as it sounds when he's weaving on his feet, but eventually there is the hint of a flush on his face and, when I check his hands, they are back to a normal colour.

Ok, mission accomplished. Now bed.

Going on past experience—not that any past experience comes even close to this—I decide it is easier to carry him than trying to get him to walk the short distance to the bed. Wrapping my towel tightly around me, I just swing him up into my arms, and I'm nearly brought to my knees by the way he holds onto me and sleepily whispers my name.

By the time I lay him down on the bed and pull the covers over him, he's already asleep. Huddled in my towel, I kneel by the bed and just look at him. He looks so beautiful! no trace of the sharpness he wears like a shield when he's awake. I brush wet tendrils of hair away from his face and, with a kiss to his forehead, I get up and get myself ready for bed.

It is only when I'm already under the covers and about to turn the light out that it hits me. He's in my bed. Not as a convenient place to spend the night because he's too stoned or drunk to walk home, but because...

At this point my brain just stops as if someone had thrown a switch. Too much to process.

I just flop back onto my pillow and lie there grinning like a fucking idiot, virtual cheers and happy dancing going on inside my head, until my eyelids start to close, heavy with sleep. Just before I fall asleep, though, his hand crawls across the pillow until it finds my face. "Hold me?” he asks in a small voice, and rolls onto his side away form me. I know what he wants. It is what I've dreamt of doing for weeks.

I drag myself closer and rearrange us until his head is cradled in the crook of my elbow and my other arm is around his waist, both of his holding tight to it. His back is flush against my chest, and his bum is snug against my hips, and I've never felt anything more right than the way his body feels against mine.

I fall asleep with his name on my lips.

My lover. My best friend.

 

 


End file.
